Some Things Never Change
by LilyBolt
Summary: "Because no matter what changed in the future, some things he knew never really would. And Sam was just fine with that." Spoilers for season 8 A oneshot from Sam's POV toward the end of the trials. Not slash.


**Author's Note: This little oneshot was inspired by my recent bout of free time and feels. lol I hope you enjoy! **

Sam was seated at the map table in the center of the bunker, eyes glued to a book of lore in front of him. Well, he was at least _trying_ to keep his eyes focused on the book…But between the throbbing head ache and the fever-induced dizziness, he was finding it difficult to keep the words from swimming on the page.

After a solid ten minutes of staring at the same paragraph and efficiently receiving only about one sentence worth of the information, he gave up and leaned back in the chair. He brought a shaky hand to his temple and rubbed, wishing the pounding would stop for a moment. He would kill for just five minutes of relief…

But it wouldn't stop. Not until he'd finished the trials. Not until he had followed through on whatever the third task was that would allow him to shut the gates of Hell at long last. Of course, he didn't feel like the kind of guy who would be able to do all of that at the moment. If he could barely read a book, he knew he'd have a hard time with whatever challenge was next on God's list. If killing a Hell Hound and saving a soul from the pit were the first two obstacles, then the third one was sure to be tough. And in his condition? It would probably be considered a form of suicide to try it…

_No. Stop thinking like that. _That was a dangerous train of thought to follow and Sam knew it. He quickly chose to distract himself from his dark musings.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ruckus coming from the bunker's ancient yet somehow still entirely functional kitchen. Pots clanked and the cabinets and fridge were slammed several times. The sound was reminiscent of a factory, and Sam had to wonder what his brother was doing in there that he could make so much noise.

But whatever it was he seemed content to be doing it. Between the sounds of closing doors and colliding metal came the off key humming of Zeppelin's "Ramble On". And not Dean's nervous humming, but the familiar kind of humming that he did only when he was calm. When he had a mission and a plan, and he was in his zone. Specifically his "mother hen" zone.

A light smile tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth. Dean, for all his determinedly masculine habits, was perhaps the most maternal person Sam had ever known. At least when it came to his little brother…

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_ "Ok Sammy. I got everything you need to kick this cold in the ass." Eight year old Sam pulled a face as his brother laid a tray of food on the bed in front of him. "We've got tomato and rice soup seasoned with the good stuff" Dean nodded his head toward the counter where Sam could clearly see a container of Cyan pepper "and there's ice cream for your throat for later. And then I got the motel guy to give me a pile of his old newspapers, so we've got at least a week's worth of the funnies to read through." _

_ The elder Winchester might have been talking about a plan of attack for some great battle, the way his eyes shone with focus and determination. Though his eyes softened automatically as his gaze rested upon Sam. _

_ "And don't give me that 'I don't wanna eat my soup' face. You'll eat it because I say you need it." Dean added when he caught sight of Sam's expression. Sam sighed and took in a mouthful of the soup. The spices burned his mouth and he spluttered for a moment. A moment was all it took for Dean to be there handing him a glass of milk. "Oh yeah, and milk to make sure you don't totally burn your tonsils up." He said sheepishly as he watched Sam take a grateful sip of the beverage. _

_ Not long after the meal was finished, Sam was lying in one of the motel's twin beds, two blankets piled on top of him and a bowl of chocolate ice cream melting slowly in front of him as he listened to his older brother read about the absurd day dreams of Calvin and Hobbes. _

_ It might have been from the cold medicine Dean had forced on him right after dinner, but Sam was suddenly filled with a deep sense of comfort and security. His eyelids felt heavy and he began to find it difficult to focus on his brother's words. The last thing Sam remembered before unconsciousness claimed him was a gentle hand on his forehead and the soft sound of someone humming Led Zeppelin. _

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Sam was pulled out of his silent reverie by the light clatter of a try being deposited in front of him. Upon it was a familiar assortment of foods.

There was tomato rice soup, a glass of milk, and a container of Cyan pepper sat next to the bowl giving Sam clear warning of what to expect from the soup, and so he could add more kick if necessary. Like he would _ever_ feel that was necessary…

Sam couldn't help but grimace at the thought of putting the spicy soup down into his already unhappy stomach. "Ah…Quit with the grumpy face Sammy. You'll eat it because I said so." Dean teased. Despite the joking tone Sam didn't doubt for an instant his brother wasn't above strapping him to a chair and spoon feeding him if he wouldn't feed himself... He took a cautious bite.

And promptly coughed, his whole mouth burning as if in protest. Immediately Dean was scooting the milk glass closer.

Upon seeing this Sam's coughing became mixed with laughter. Dean looked worried and tentatively patted Sam's back. "Need a bucket?" he asked sincerely. Sam only laughed harder, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

"No, Dean. I'm good." He finally managed to get the words out. And it was true. Despite the pain he was in and the odds he was facing…Well, for the first time in weeks he felt comfortable and secure, and he knew somehow that he could get through it all. The third trial, slamming the gates of Hell...Whatever crap undoubtedly would follow that...

Dean stood behind Sam's seat still looking concerned, but Sam just glanced up at him and asked, "Hey, we didn't throw out the old newspapers the Men of Letters left, did we?" Dean raised an eyebrow but didn't comment before turning and leaving the room.

He returned with an old box of yellowing newspapers, and his humming had resumed.

Sam couldn't help but smile once more. Because no matter what changed in the future, some things he knew never really would. And Sam was just fine with that.

**Secondary Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I would really appreciate if you shared your thoughts on this one with me, so don;t be shy about reviewing! :) **


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